A hate for all things Durin
by shishiwastaken
Summary: Azog vowed to end the line of Durin, but what caused his hate to spawn itself? Follow the events that led to all the unasked questions of 'why.' COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only own my OC. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1**

A battle rages in the midst of a rocky field. Littered around are bodies, tents, and freshly stamped out fire pits as weapons clash, sparking with each clang of crudely wrought iron. At the center of it all is Azog, the giant, pale, Gundabad orc. A mutation even amongst his own, he towers above all with ease. Muscles bulge from beneath his flesh, barely contained beneath the tough exterior. His hide of pale leather-like thickness illuminates his icy blue eyes which spark with an intellectual sharpness that rivals his daggered fangs. He toys with his opponents, if you can call half starved and beaten foot soliders by the title, allowing them to come close enough for him to disembowel each with his scimitar. The curved blade was created with a hooked point to yank the innards of the enemy from the torso. The wound does not end their lives however, no, he leaves them to slowly walk the path to darkness. Before they reach it however, he returns and smashes their skulls with his spiked mace. It has become a pattern, a ritual almost, though none have been able to escape despite knowing the orc's aim. The reason behind his slaughter is simple sport; weeding out the weaker members of his army to enhance the strength over all. It also passes the time. Waiting idly is never an option when there is greater strength to be procured. A squeal of outrage is all that is needed to confirm that what has been awaited has come to pass. A commanding roar halts further attacks as Azog's hulking form strides from the self-made arena without a scratch upon his skin. He approaches the only standing tent, shoving the guard from the entrance with an order.

"Feed the weak to the wargs." He jerks his head with a scoff at his dead goblins "Give the survivors a female."

Without waiting for an answer, Azog pushes aside the flap and enters the shelter. The scent of blood is heavy in the air, tickling his sensitive nose with the familiar aroma. All things bleed, from beast to plant, and the orc is no stranger to it. Many times he has bathed in it, giving his skin color the only way it can obtain it. Silently dismissing the orcesses gathered he moves toward a bundle, blackened with the dark substance. Reaching in, the orc grasps a limb and forcefully yanks it into the air. Holding the bloody wriggling mass of flesh to his face, the pale orc examines the imp. It is large, far larger than any orc should be at birth. This is supported by the cooling corpse of the she orc who birthed him. Separated from the floor by a few scraps of dirty cloth a mere foot away, she bleeds out from the completion of her duty. Though she had a name the chieftain never made the effort to learn it, using her body for the purpose of providing an heir. There are others, there will always be others, and the orc has already forgotten her. Azog pays little attention to the nameless female, feeling no pity for her fate as she has given him what he desired: A son. The wargs would have enjoyed the flesh of a child had it been female. His skin is a deep gray, similar to the ash left by the night's flame. His face, unevenly flat like it has been crushed by a hammer, is curled into an animalistic snarl. It gives a clear view of twisted teeth that already glisten in his muzzled mouth. The orcling twitches in his sire's grasp as he nods his acceptance of the imp, holding him upside down by the ankles.

"He is large." A general, Yazneg, of the vast army acknowledges when their leader exits the enclosure, still holding the newborn in the strange position "What of the carrier?"

"She has served her purpose." The ruler responds without compassion for the life lost "My heir has arrived just as he should: covered in blood with death at his heels."

"May he serve you well."

"He will." The heavy newborn is raised into the air for all to see. A roaring cheer resounds through the caverns, accepting the successor "His name shall be Bolg. All shall tremble at its utterance."

The orcling grows fast, chasing after his sire with a hungry goal of one day surpassing him. Quickly his world expands from the gloom he was born to, into the darkness he would thrive in. Nothing is given freely; not food or shelter. All needs to be fought for, killed for. The strong live to fight again while the weak are used as fodder and cast aside. In the end, it all comes back to power. The more one gains, the better they are. The best, or worst, is his sire Azog. He is a powerful and cruel ruler, caring only enough for his men and offspring to ensure their growing strength. Day by day, month by month, year by year. Strength is the only goal and when it comes time to test that strength, Bolg's darkness impressed even his father with his ruthlessness in battle. The young orc hacks at his enemies, each swipe of his bone club delivering a killing blow with such ease that all would think his was born with the weapon in hand. Upon reaching his majority, Azog gifts his heir with a mace similar to his own, showing his pride for his strength in the only way deemed acceptable. Bolg found most of his violent inspiration in how Azog dealt with his enemies. While he would quickly snap the neck of men and chop off the limbs of elves, he held a special disdain for dwarves. When the now full grown orc finally asked his sire of his hate his answer was much simpler than expected.

"Men are weak and elves are fearful but dwarves… dwarves will fight with their all and crushing that spirit is more satisfying than anything else."

His passion for slaying dwarves becomes so intense that he takes to ending entire lineages. Fathers, mothers, children. It matters not, as long as they suffer. The females he enjoys in numerous ways, earning the fitting title of 'defiler' for his preference of virgins. Each time he succeeds in collapsing a family tree, he adds a scar to his face so that all will know of his prowess. It is by chance that he leads his army to Moria; the abandoned dwarven city. The underground chambers are filled not with golden flecks or sparkling gems, but with mithril. He uses the silvered steel to enhance to deadliness of his army. It is fitting that should Azog defile the dwarven body, that the home should be next. As often as possible he brings dwarf dams, though rare because of their overall lack of abundance, into the city of their ancestors to sully them in the holes that were once seen as sacred to all that walked them. He teaches his ways to his son, but Bolg finds more enjoyment in simple death than torture. It always ends in darkness for their victims, regardless of which sword they meet it at the end of. It remains this way for many years. The halls become soaked with centuries of blood and the cries of pure anguish can always be heard. For Azog, life is as it should be. Then, there was Thror.

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New story time! This is my 2nd story and I'm actually really excited about it. Not that I wasn't excited about the first. This one won't be nearly as long though. If you haven't, go read my other story too, though they aren't co-dependant on each other and can be read separately. Anyhow, review! I need to know how you all feel about it. See you next time!


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only any OC that happen to fall in. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2**

All had heard of Smaug's appearance by the time King Thror came wandering into the lost kingdom of Moria. On many occasions Azog thought of how fitting it was for the greed of dwarves to be outmatched only by a dragon. His attention to dwarves was piqued many years before when he came into contact with the only dwarf he was unable to kill. It had been an exhilarating battle, he had even cut the dwarf's eye from its socket but alas, the battle was interrupted and his fled. Thanks to Smaug's siege of the mountain, many more dwarves are forced to roam the lands, easy targets for Azog's sport. So great are their numbers that the orc's self mutilation begins to extend to his torso. He brings many prisoners to be tortured in his stony barricade and when he becomes bored of it, he forces them to reveal the secrets of their heritage. For though an orc, Azog has a vicious hunger for knowledge. He learns many things from each of the captured dwarves over time; their language, lettering, braid meanings. Little by little, their culture is revealed to him. Although dwarves are stubborn and hardy creatures who are not easily bent, they learn quickly to give the orc his desires or risk being broken before killed. Some give in after mere hours in his presence while others spend weeks in agony. Death is always waiting, it is simply how quickly the pale orc leads you there.

Never did Azog expect anyone to simply walk through his gates. More bodies are forced through the entrance doors than ones who walk in of their own free will. The orcs watch with wonder as the dwarf strolls into the encampment as though he owns it; each accepting on sight of his glazed eyes and unkempt hair that he is clearly mad and therefore not worth the effort of killing. They settle for eyeing him with mild interest as he enters, sure that he will meet his end at their master's hands.

"What rat has crawled it's way into my domain?" the defiler rumbles, having heard of the uninvited guest. His gaze is dim however, finding little interest in a panhandling dwarf "Have we beggars at the door now?"

"I should ask the same, only here I find a squatter." The dwarf sneers in return, casting a look of disgust around him "Why does orcish scum soil my halls?"

"YOUR halls?" with a humorless chuckle, the orc crosses his arms but finally gives the dwarf the attention he seeks "These are MY halls. Who are you to claim them?"

"I am King Thror, son of Dain, son of Nain and you Azog," he all but spits the orc's name as he lifts his war hammer, thrusting it at the white goliath "shall defile these halls no longer."

"A King?" Dim eyes spark to life with unnatural light, causing the present orcs to back away in caution. Death lands on those foolish enough to be caught in those gleaming orbs. Azog watches the dwarf in a new light, not only because of his status but also the familiarity of his name "I have not killed a king yet."

"And you shant today!" the dwarf lifts his weapon again, brandishing it to show himself ready "I shall give you a taste of dwarvish iron!"

Blood, fighting, and death are expected but those in attendance start in confusion as the chieftain offers no violent retort. Instead, he shakes the silent room with booming laughter. It echoes through the halls before eventually fading into the darkness of the hidden caverns. Placing his arms comfortably on the rests of the chair, Azog sits back lazily onto his podium. No movement can be detected aside from Thror's furiously shaking body. Slowly, the hall is filled with ear piercing laughter. Few are aware of the reason behind it but the action angers the dwarf, furthering their mirth.

"You think I jest?!" the dwarf demands, waving his weapon wildly

"No, dwarf." Azog responds, twirling a small carving knife in his hand "I think you mad."

"I will show you mad!" Thror bellows with a charge but is stopped by Bolg's thick arms "Release me, you swine!"

"Son-"

Azog's command is cut short by a howl of agony. His son stumbles back away from the dwarf king, clutching his left eye as cloudy liquid leaks between his thick fingers. Thror bounds away to a safe distance, moving quicker than the orcs gave him credit for, while gripping the hilt of the weapon he just used to grind into the heir's eye. Without needing to examine the damage, Azog can judge from the physical evidence that his prided heir with never use the sight in that eye again. He growls lowly in annoyance, disappointed that Bolg allowed such an injury to befall himself. Shame blossoms in his chest with each wail. Rising from his seated position, he pushes past his blinded son to face the snarling dwarf.

"Had I known he was your kin, I would have done it earlier." The dwarf keeps low in a defensive position, prepared for an attack from any direction "An eye for an eye."

"You enter my kingdom to blind my son?" Azog asks coldly

"I come to retake my ancestral home but find retribution for my son." The defiler is awarded the knowledge of why this dwarf is seemingly familiar. He shares a relation with the one he blinded years earlier. The prided line of Durin "Mahal has blessed me!"

"Mahal has led you to your death, dwarf!"

Having no other reason to listen to his ramblings any longer, the large orc charges the shorter male. Not to be outdone, Thror blocks, dodges, and returns his opponent's vigor blow for blow. None dare to interfere, not even Bolg who stands uncharacteristically quiet beside his father's throne. The heir knows he will be punished for his weakness and justly so. It is an impossible battle for Thror to win for even if the dwarf were to defeat the mutation, there are thousands of orcs remaining. Nonetheless, dwarves are not known for frequenting the art of retreat. Putting his all into the battle, Thror is determined to die with the pride his people uphold so strongly. His plans are halted when Azog's arm snaps out to take hold of his weapon. Years of being holed up inside a room of gold have dulled his skills. In his surprise, Thror's grip loosens just enough for the hammer to be torn from his grasp. Rather than backing away, the king glares at the orc with a withering gaze, refusing to meet death in a coward's position.

"You will find no honor here, Durin rat." Azog takes hold of the dwarf's neck, forcing him into the submissive position that the orc is known for frequenting: on the knees "For you, there is only shame. I have decided to carve my name into your line."

Raising the small knife from earlier, the orc indicates for a few of the jeering onlookers to restrain the dwarf as he begins to make good on his promise. With slow deliberate movements that are only disrupted by the king's thrashing, Azog engraves the characters of his name into the very flesh of Thror's forehead using dwarvish runes. He did this not for his legions, for few of them were literate let alone well versed in other languages, but rather he undertook the task to insight fear into the dwarven race. None of them were beyond his reach, not even their ruler. He originally planned to behead Thror but quickly decided to complete the task when the dwarf returns for his revenge. Because he would and when he did, he would surely bring more dwarves to slaughter. Standing tall once more, the orc examines his work as though it is a piece of art. Flesh gaping open in gashes, thick blood oozing from the wounds trying to clot the site, ashen skin from the loss of lifes nectar. Yes, to Azog this is truly a piece only a master could create. Wiping his knife clean on the dwarf's tunic, he picks up a few pieces of randomly strewn silver and shoves them into the king's mouth. Thror immediately spits them out, causing the orc to take more drastic measures. Minutes later, the currency is firmly situated in the dwarf's mouth and remains in place due to the orifice being sewn shut. Satisfied, Azog orders Thror to be tossed from the halls, anticipation growing at the expectant return of an army worth battling. There is no doubt that the one eyed son, Thrain, will be in attendance. Maybe he even has offspring. The orc can then add ending a king's line to his stripes. Azog watches Thror limp to his feet after being thrown into the valley, soon joined by an elderly dwarf who had been outside the gates hiding. Raising his head to address the coward, he calls out.

"Take my slave back to his people with his payment, and have him beg the dragon for his home." He roars into the darkness after the escaping dwarf pair "These are my halls for I am King!"

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Second chapter is up! I'm working this on slow; I want it to be just right. Hey Jesusfreak3791, welcome back! Kelwtim2par, thanks for reading. I hope you guys are enjoying it. See you next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only any OC that happen to fall in. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3**

And return he does. Within 3 years Thror returns and behind him stands a mighty dwarven army that fills Azog with twisted glee. The giant orc's sensitive ears can hear their approach from miles away, not that the dwarves were quiet. Quite the contrary; they stomped their boots in time with the beating of their shields, frightening every beasts that thought to come across their path. It is an ancient tactic that all creatures know to use. The power behind a roar is to warn the enemy of the strength in the bite. Azog recognizes it as simple noise to be outmatched, and soon the valley is clear of all living creatures save for the opposing sides. He tears his sharp gaze from the approaching army to command his own to the ready. Each militia marches forward, hungry for the battle the have spent the last few years preparing for. Both sides halt when they are within a hundred yards of each other, waiting for further instruction from their leaders. Thror is the first to make his move, calling out to all who will listen.

"Your reign over my halls has come to an end, Azog!" he spits the orc's name with such venom, it is a wonder his tongue does not fall from his head "Come! Face me, and pay for your crimes!"

"Is my name not carved into your flesh, dwarf? All that is yours now belongs to me." The defiler steps forward to stand before his men. Spreading his arms wide, he lifts his head to sneer at all those below him "Bow to the master of all, for if I own a king does that not make me a god?"

"You own nothing! You rule nothing! You ARE nothing!" A young dwarf with a mass of raven hair and icy blue eyes that rival the orc's own pale orbs steps up to stand beside Thror. One by one the king is joined by his kin, unknowingly presenting themselves as targets for Azog's flesh game. Though most are nameless, the orc can easily pick out the one eyed son and two younger dwarves sharing a strong resemblance to Thror and are most likely his grandchildren

"I bought his flesh, did I not?" Azog cackles as Thror purses his lips in remembrance of the coppery taste of retreat and soiled metal "Unless payment is returned, he is indeed owned by me."

"I'll shove that 'payment' up your arse!" Thror raises his battle ax to signal his army as he finishes speaking "Bring me that filth's head!"

"I shall pluck the skulls of your spawn from their spines." the giant orc returns with delighted rage "I will however, start with yours."

And thus begins the battle of Azanulbizar. It rages like wild fire under the gates of Moria, painting the earth in black and red. Azog stands tall and watches it all in silence. Unlike his opponent, he will allow his men to tire his enemy before he joins. Each massive army is well equipped for battle however the orcs are better prepared for the terrain. Though the valley sits beneath dwarven ruins, no dwarf has lived inside for many years. Unlike the orcs who have trained upon the loose and rocky soil all their lives, the dwarves find difficulty in gaining purchase. The orcs beat back the dwarves, physically throwing them from the claimed land. It is a serene scene for Azog to gaze upon but soon he decides that enough time has passed and joins into the fray. With a mighty roar, he smashes anybody that is close enough for his mace to reach. To him, there are no allies or enemies, only those who will fall to his might. Spying his prey battling against a lowly goblin, the mutation draws his mace back and strikes the dwarf before he has time to acknowledge his presence. Such force is put into the blow that Thror's head is nearly wrenched from his neck. As he falls, it hangs on by thick cartilage and fleshy meat before the pale orc rips i completely free.

"Father, no!" a horrified cry is let out

It draws Azog's attention to the new but uncrowned King however, he finds the passion that he seeks in a much younger dwarf. The same one who attempted to defend the former king's honor. Smirking cruelly, he hefts the head of the dead king across the field to show it off to the young prince. The stunned dwarrow watches the bloodied sphere bounce towards him, leaving behind wet imprints on the already blood soaked ground. The other dwarves call to him, giving the orc the name of his next kill: Thorin. Movement from the corner of his eye shows Bolg dragging the struggling new king into the depths of Moria. What he plans for the monarch is not Azog's concern however.

"I offer you the same oath I gave to those of your line who fell before you." He calls to the prince, nearly singing in mirth "Are you ready for death, _Thorin_?"

"Keep my name from your mouth, filth! You shall pay for your crimes!" he retaliates without a tremor in his voice "The line of Durin is stronger than even your taint upon the world!"

"Your grandfather is dead, your father has fled," here the crowd looks round about them only to find the new king truly vanished. Without a leader, they begin to crumble at the edges as Azog continues "Your brother lies in pieces scattered around the field. Are there anymore Durin pests I need to remove?"

"I-"

"You shall fall soon enough." Azog speaks slowly, being sure that every word can be heard over the melee "It is time to end the wretched line of Durin!"

Wasting no more time with words, the gundabad orc begins batting his way through the war zone fully intent on killing the Durin prince. The pure joy written across his enemy's face is enough to shock the young dwarf into stillness at advancement of the charging killer.

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Heeeeey, sorry for the wait. I had some trouble in RL and just couldn't get the chapter written. But here it is now! I hope you enjoy it and if you do, dropme a review or a PM. Thank you my faithful reviewer. Yes, I mean you. Buh bye now!


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only any OC that happen to fall in. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4**

Raining blow after blow on the dwarf's recoiling form, Azog aims to carry out his death oath. The tired dwarf offers little resistance against the battering of his enemy's mace. Thorin lifts his shield to block the first blow only for it to be knocked from his grasp. Tucking into a roll, he raises his sword as a means of forcing the blood thirsty creature back but the weapon quickly follows the fate of its counterpart. The force of the blow flings the dwarrow down a slope and Azog leaps after him, ready to continue the battle. Slamming his mac in a downward arch, the orc barely misses the dwarf as he rolls out of the way. Dirt and grime cling to the pair but neither make the effort to wipe it from their faces. Azog grins as Thorin lifts a small branch of oak against his melee, knowing it cannot hold out under the onslaught for long. It only takes a few strikes before the orc's rival is revealed once more. Standing over his heavily breathing opponent, the defiler's chest fills with dark glee at what is coming. He stares down into eyes he has met many times before. Even in death's wake, the eyes of those descended from Durin always blaze with a fighting spirit. The originator must have been afierce opponent. The sheer elation of having met, and ended, such a passionate people is enough to make the orc's black heart sing.

"Each of my scars are deliberate. Trophies of the lines I have ended." He runs a hand across the long tally marks, gaining satisfaction as the dwarf's eyes flicker to the mutilations and widen at the sheer number of them "I only count the dwarvish lineages. I have decided that your line is next."

"So many lives…" Thorin's gaze lingers on the evidence of the death of so many of his people before snapping his scrutiny to face the orc "May your loins shrivel and never bare the fruit of life!"

"My son scattered your brother's brains over the valley." He replies with a toothy smirk. Azog, spinning in a circular motion to gain momentum to crush the dwarf, bellows "Die!"

A roar sounds followed by a blood chilling howl from the orc chieftain. Clutching the bleeding stump where his left arm used to be, he gurgles in rage. During his spin, Thorin had just enough time to lift a discarded sword and use it to slice off his adversary's arm. The defiler falls to his knees as the prince rises to his feet. The young monarch's body protests from continuous use but he faces his grandfather's killer with a straightened spine.

"You first." He grinds out

The tale of Azog the defiler would have ended there if it weren't for the intervention of his men. Three orcs grasp the arms and torso of their leader, dragging him out of harm's way as two others begin to battle the risen dwarf prince. A pained snarl escapes the pale mutation as his prey becomes further and further but his wound causes weakness to seep into his limbs. His snarls grow louder at this knowledge, refusing to accept his handicap even as the dwarves rally together too follow their new leader. Another army filters onto the battlefield, turning the tides in favor of the dwarves. Azog can only watch as the leader of the new additions lowly swings his war hammer, as if it were an iron foot, knocking the orcs clear across the turf.

"AZOG!" Thorin roars, drawing the attention of defiler as he tries to reach the retreating chieftain "Coward!"

"I've something for ye!" the new dwarf calls suddenly before an arrow with a small pouch thunks into the large orc's chest "A return to sender from me da. Sorry it's late!"

The arrow sits in Azog's chest as a ringing fills his ears and the world darkens around the edges of his sight. Everything slows down and blinking becomes nearly too much for the orc. Dwarves roar and orcs shriek as they do battle; neither side giving an inch. They step over the corpses of their fallen comrades, saving their grief for a safer point in time. Each dragging step away from the surreal moment is punctuated with the clinking of the coin pouch embedded above his heart. Had the Iron hammered dwarf been any better at wielding a bow, his aim would have been true. As it was not, Azog is forced to watch his army fall and he with it. He struggles against the arms pulling him inside to yell a parting remarking.

" **I will not forgive this, Durin! I will never forget!** " his voice is thick as he roars violently in black speech " **Be prepared, for I will find you again and I shall kill you!** "

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Time seems to flash by and Azog is aware that he is being moved. To where, he is unable to ask but the searing pain in his arm tells him that he is alive. It is a welcome pain compared to the empty feeling he had been floating in. He had met death, but death could not hold him. He awakens many times, the first is to crush the skull of the orc who shoved a spiked weapon into his gaping wound. The second time it is to keep the wargs from devouring him. The third and last time he awakens is because of the darkness. Azog's eyes open, pupils dilating to capture as much light as possible but it still isn't enough. Orcs are naturally equip to thrive where the light lacks but this darkness is deep and more than visual. This is a darkness that can be felt, like a heavy cloak cutting off all sunlight.

" **Why have I been brought here?"** he questions into the inky blackness when he feels a presence approaching " **Speak!** "

"I have need of you." A bodiless voice answers, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once "So I brought you and your men here."

 **"** **I've no need of you!"** the orc growls in return, only to have his chest nearly burst open as the darkness batters against his ribs. It would not have been so painful if the beating hadn't been coming from WITHIN his own body " **What… What have you done to me?** "

"I have saved you life, Azog the defiler." The voice all but coos in happiness "Now it belongs to me."

" **Who are you**?" the orc demands, though makes no further move of violence

"I have many names but you…" even without a face, the face grins coldly "you can call me master."

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I'm sooooo sorry this took so long. I wrote the chapter, by hand, and then I lost my notebook and had to just wing it. I tried to incorporate everything I could remember. Anyway, I've started writing the sequel to my other story, though I won't be posting it for a while now. Take comfort in knowing that it's getting done! Blackhreat, Laura, and Jesusfreak are the best people out there! See you soon. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only any OC that happen to fall in. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

It is not long before Azog discovers just who his new 'Master' is. At first, the orc believes the being to be a powerful necromancer. His magic was dark as the defiler's blood however that belief is quickly eradicted. It begins with whispered stories of the Nazgul, more specifically the Witch-King of Angmar. He was forced to offer his services, just as the orc is, and Azog came to realize just how powerful this 'necromancer' is and was. For in order to control such a being as the Witch-king, he surely must be influential. Bit by bit, information is gained about the elusive creature that trapped he and his men within his clutches. It is not until a grey wizard entered the hidden fortress that Azog is positive of the necromancer's true identity. He is Sauron, Chief Lieutenant of the first Dark Lord, Morgoth. It angers the pale orc that such vital information was not only kept from him, but also that it is given. There is no doubt in his mind that the information was purposefully spread in order to incite fear into his masses. Fear is a powerful weapon, not that it diminishes the effect of Sauron's magic in the least. No, his strength is felt daily for centuries, delivering painful reminders of his supremacy. However, it is not Azog who suffers under his ire. That place is occupied by the uncrowned King, Thrain. What the darkness desires from the dwarf is of great importance, clearly shown by both parties refusal to relinquish it even years into their feud.

"Why did you bring him here?" Azog questions his son after half a century with his days punctuated by Thrain's agonized howls. The sounds have long since lost their appeal and have more or less become part of the fortress itself "You had never shown any interest prior or since."

"I wished to try things differently." The heir sneers in distaste at the sound of the dwarf retching for the third time today "I found that death screams hold more pull than tortured ones."

The defiler offers nothing more than a low growl, dismissing his milky eyed son from his presence. This is where they differ the greatest. The mutation watches his son disappear around a corner, only to be replaced by his second in command, Rogdul. He is large orc, though not as large as Agog, with skin the color and toughness of leather. The orc has been by Azog's side since they were imps and has proven time and again his nearly unmatched prowess in battle. He approaches his chieftain, taking in the scene before them with sickly green eyes.

"Your heir understands the importance of fear." He begins in an uncharacteristic show of speech. Rarely does the brown orc resort to words, a trait the defiler has come to prefer in his men "It is a great turning point for battles; a fearful opponent ia a hesitant one and hesitation means death."

"He is still young. Foolish." Azog responds, scoffing as another cry pierces the air "He still believes his most powerful weapons are his fists."

Azog knows from experience that with enough fear, a battle can be avoided completely. The orc is not averse to violence yet, he can keep his numbers high if he does not battle daily. The pale orc built his reputation to the point where he could enter a city and raid it without ever lifting a sword.

"Bolg is young." Rogdul agrees with a slight inclination of his bulbous head. His fangs curl over his thin lips in a rare show of amusement "Strong, but inexperienced. You were once empty headed."

"He knows little." the sire responds, ignoring the jab "He refuses to fill his head."

"Teach him." His lieutenant answers, dismissing himself "If he will not learn, kill him and begin again."

The statement brings a low chuckle to the pale orc's chest. Yes, he could kill Bolg easily and start over. It is why the young orc exists in the first place. His elder sibling, Grukk was a large, burly, half troll whose physical prowess was surpassed by none. He was a simpleton however, refusing to learn that the battlefield is not where the fighting ends. The fight never ends, ever. Azog personally ended his pathetic life and spawned Bolg. It would be a shame to have to start over once more, but not impossible. The pale mutation can be killed but can not die on his own, similar to the elvish roots he was honed from. He calls for his son, able to hear his heavy approach from across the encampment.

"The fear that is instilled into that dwarf's heart," he begins once his current heir arrives. He bathes in the tormented screams that his son deems unnecessary "will be felt by every other for years to come. That is true fear. That is true power. See to it that you learn quickly, for even you can be replaced."

A sickening crack is heard throughout the formally abandoned fortress and the screams are unnaturally cut off. Sauron's shadowed form exits the room where the dwarf has been housed for over 50 years. All present wonder if he has finally grown tired and snapped the stubborn creature's neck. Eerie silence follows the cloaked figure, as if he snatches the sound from the air itself. What used to be a mass of dark energy now holds a fluttering form of a large man. It is plain to see that he has gotten stronger. A sudden choking sob alerts the orcs that Thrain is indeed still alive. Angered by his father's words and eager to show his mettle, the young heir unwisely challenges the necromancer.

"Why have you let him live?" Bolg demands to know, storming up to the cloaked figure. His insolence is quickly dealt with as he is flung into a wall as easy as if he were once again fresh to the world

"I have what I desire." It answers coldly, as Bolg stumbles to his feet. "His mind is broken, but you may do with him what you will."

"I've no use for a broken dwarf." The defiler answers without raising his voice, not wishing to earn the dark lord's wrath

"Then kill him. Or leave him to rot. He will die on his own in due time." The figure throws a ghostly hand towards the stronghold's entrance "Go. Expand your army once more. Orcs and goblins will not be enough. I will call upon you when the time comes for your dues to be paid."

With a scowl, the orc quickly does as he has been instructed. He does not even attempt to end the dwarf's life, the satisfaction vanished with Thrain's mind. Azog's desire to be free of Sauron's power is stronger than his natural instinct to rebel against an order.

"Move out!" he roars and all are quick to follow, deserting the fortress in minutes

* * *

Years pass and Azog's hate for all things Durin related grows in ferocity. Two of the line escaped, though one will surely die on his own and the other Azog swears to disembowel. While the weapon embedded into his arm is useful, it does not compare to having a hand. The pale orc does not dwell on what has been lost however, only how he will repay the debt to the dwarf who placed him in the predicament. It is for this reason that he grows his decimated lesions into stronger ones. Orcs, goblins, and trolls race to his side and those who do not are swiftly dealt with. The orc soon settled his growing army in Guntabad, a stronghold formed in the far north of the misty mountains. Here they train day in and day out for the war they would wage on the world. Oliphaunts and wargs are bred for battle, beasts of war that will serve as both supply carriers and weapons.

"WEAKLINGS!" an orc bruiser roars out, lashing a trainee for his lack of concentration "You think this is a game!?"

"Father." Bolg greets his sire as the chieftain watches the scene unfold with a bored expression "There has been word from over the mountain. It passed through towns of men that-"

"There are many words exchanged by men." He responds, deceivingly calm. Azog stands from his place, grabs the offending foot solider, and tosses him into the warg pit where he is soon devoured "I have little need to hear them."

"They concern Oakenshield." he continues, knowing it will be enough

"Oaken shield?" It has been too long since the orc has hear that name, though he never forgot it "What do they say then?"

"That he is gathering an army to retake the dragon's mountain." for it is the dragon's mountain now. Resting at a highly influential point in middle earth, the location is sought after by many. The necromancer had sent word a for months early about a possible alliance with the fire drake "What shall we do?"

"Simple." he answers, a cruel and malicious leer etches itself across his face "We hunt until I have a dwarven rug."

 ** _FIN_**

* * *

Goodness gracious me, this took forever! Thanks for sticking with me to the end and yes, this is the end. I don't feel the need to go farther as the rest is pretty much self explanatory. The entire point was to give Agog some depths. I think he's a formidable villian and should be shown to have some stuff going on in his life. Liiiiiike a teenaged son who just won't join the family business! But! Now that its done, I can start posting chapter for my new story! Its the sequel to 'An adventure of a lifetime' with our favorite character Thia and many more! Did that sound like a commercial? I think that sounded like a commercial. A good commercial but a commercial all the same. Any who, get excited because I sure am. Bah bye now!


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